


This is Water

by ashslei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashslei/pseuds/ashslei
Summary: Five years after the war, and Pansy has found herself in a world she never expected. Filled with new people, customs, and complexities. Until a chance encounter brings her back to what she missed. To a world which had soundly rejected her for her role in the war. And all the while, she has to struggle just to stay afloat, to remind herself of what's important.





	This is Water

This is water.

A saying my mother used to tell me. Funny that, because it was a muggle phrase and if there was one thing that my parents liked least about this world, it was the existence of muggles. She used to say it while crooning over my hair, a soft reminder that the most important truths of existence are often the most difficult to envision. A mantra about the art of choosing, and the futility of fighting against the world like it revolves around you.

Of course in the end, neither of my parents took their own advice. They had made their choices, and I had made mine, and now I was left trying to pick up all the pieces that slipped from my grasp like water into parched earth.

I swirled my drink around and tipped it back.

Turns out muggles were pretty damn good at some things, like Old Fashioneds. I ordered another, and the bartender silently poured one out.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” came a voice from my right, filled with honest surprise and a delicious seasoning of derision.

I sighed and took a sip, ignoring the red-haired woman. Relegated her to the backdrop of my mind, an unimportant flicker among the clamorous humdrum of existence. Little more than a dream.

“Not gonna talk, huh? That’s new. You wouldn’t stop back in school.”

A different person. A different life.

“Really? Nothing at all?” She spat out.

“What do you want from me?” I spoke in spite of myself. To answer was to give significance, to import meaning and consequence to her words. Now I was tied to her, and as much as I might struggle and wrestle with that bond, I had only myself to blame.

“An apology would be nice. But not to me, to my brother. Do you know what it’s like? Turning around and expecting to see him, but realizing that you’ll never see him again?”

Yes. “No.”

My drink was meant to be savored, yet only emptiness lay before me. I did not order another.

“So…?”

I breathed in a sigh, trying to make it not look too obvious. Something I had been forced to learn quickly since the war. Everyone wanted to hate me, and they’d pick up on any excuse. Gone were the days of outspoken Pansy; there was little left now to define me.

Is this water?

I slapped down a twenty on the counter, and turned to leave.

“I’ve already apologized a hundred times, and it didn’t bloody change nothing.”

.

.

“Back so soon…?” I spoke as the red-haired woman sat down next to me. Our words had made that bond, and it would seem that she was as tied down as I was. Thrashing and gnashing, our second meeting was an inevitability.

On the television screen flashed a muggle sport of some type, one they had made famous in America. A copied name. All it appeared to me was men repeatedly running into each other. How macabre.

“Why did you do it?” her voice warbled. A question that could mean many things, or possibly all of them at once.

A smooth voice whispered tantalizingly in my mind, an echoing call that drew the gloom of a dark omen. Waiting. Looming. Biding its time until the bell tolls, and the harsh cognizance glimmered in your deepest recesses that hope is an illusion, crafted by those who would break you. Ripping and biting, grinding and smiting, those words instilled a dark memory, a fearful presence that abandoned all reason and pulled you down to the dregs of insanity.

“Because I’m a fucking moron.”

The ginger seemed to pause at that.

“Fair enough,” she spoke, and ordered something sweet from the bartender, who smiled as he crafted her request. Something he had never done for me.

“Not an order I expected from you,” I let escape before I could help it.

“And why’s that?”

“I just… figured you’d be more of a whiskey girl. You seem like the type. And most sporty people avoid sugar like the plague from what I hear.”

“Well I figured you’d be more of the sickly-sweet type, and here we are,” she dumped her elbows on the table. “And I haven’t played quidditch in years.”

Well, that’s interesting. I wondered what could have caused that change.

“So what are you doing in these parts, if you know what I mean?” She spoke with curiosity, but still some edge.

“I work not too far from here.”

If she was surprised, she kept it hidden wonderfully.

“What do you do, then?”

“I tutor muggles in math,” I reluctantly answered. “Algebra, trig, calculus, that sort of stuff.”

“Why?” she spoke plainly, but I could detect the hidden question there. Always a loaded question, I had given up the right for normal conversation when I made a deal with the devil.

“It’s not like any place back home would hire someone like me. And I’m good at it. I was just as surprised as you are. What about you? Why aren’t you soaring around in the clouds like you used to? People always used to say that you were made for the skies…”

She didn’t answer for a while, just sat there sipping and staring at her drink like it had insulted her.

“I wish I knew,” she finally muttered, if one could even distinguish that as an answer. Minutes passed and she never expanded on it.

“It’s Halloween tonight,” the words tumbled from my mouth without a thought. “Did you know that muggle children have this custom around here? They dress up in costumes and go door to door, and people give them candy? Witches and wizards. Scary monsters. I never knew…”

She glanced up at me then, an odd look in her eye. I didn’t know what it meant. I’m not sure I would ever know what it meant.

.

.

“Look, I’m telling you, the Chudley Cannons actually have a good chance of making it to the World Cup this year-- no, I’m not joking! It’s serious! They came out of nowhere and blew the other teams out of the water,” the redhead spoke around a bite of Chinese takeout.

“Over my dead body,” I snorted without a trace of civility. “My f… father said that the Cannons were drafted on purpose to be a joke, just to see how gullible the people were. It was one of the only things he ever said about quidditch, I don’t think he liked it much.”

“Well, I mean… my brother, Ron? You know him? ...right. He loves the Cannons, so you might be onto something there. But they just signed on Davidson this month! You really think he would just throw away his career like that?”

“I’m not sure, it was probably just a joke. It’s fun to come up with conspiracy theories sometimes; the more ridiculous the better.”

“You’re sounding like Luna now,” she smiled.

“Oh God. No offense, but I hope not.”

“I know some of the things she says are somewhat weird, but she’s such a lovely person though. It makes you want to believe in the things she says, because she’s so pure and wholesome. You might like her if you met her.”

“Maybe. Well, she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“I…”

I fell silent. The words hit like hammer blows. Smiting my insides like it was carefully crafted to forge out my impurities, leaving them open and vulnerable on the hardened anvil. Why?

“Do you miss them…? Your parents?” She spoke, and I realized I had been silent for a minute or two.

“Of, of course. I miss them.”

Silence stretched between us again, like a glass plate balanced precariously on a table edge, and a news report that the largest hurricane of the century was moments from bearing down on your doorstep.

“They died in the final fight, you know. They… I don’t even know who killed them. It could have been anyone. Could have been Potter, or McGonagall; heck for all I know it could have been you. No one told me they had found my parents. I waited for hours at the estate, waiting and wondering. Then I apparated back, and people were screaming at me as I cradled my mother’s hand. I… shit…”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, and I didn’t understand.

Is this water?

“Anyway, most of the family money was gone at that point. The small amount left went to the funeral and paying off debts, and the last went to my education. Now I have to work two weeks to make rent because my old world set a price for dead and alive.”

“I’m sorry.”

A hand on my shoulder. The Weasley girl was actually comforting me. The world is full of surprises.

.

.

I waited in the alleyway beside the building where the Weasley girl worked. An accounting firm of all things. She was an accountant, and all the reason and sense in this world tumbled into the dark recesses of the Mariana Trench. Where and how did she get that idea? But it turns out witches and wizards needed accounting too; even magical folk had to pay their dues to Churchill.

The reason I waited in the alley though was that I had stepped inside for a moment, and was beset with angry glares. The kind of glares that said more than ‘you’re not welcome here’. The kind of glares that bespoke of threats and punishment. That revenge would be the first of their steps in recovery. Long and drawn out, it would be the end of their innocence, and certainly the end of me.

I toyed around with the idea of attempting some charms to change my appearance, but I had never really learned them well enough. And it was considered bad manners in public. What I didn’t need was another reason for everyone to hate me.

“Pansy…” a breathy voice came from the sidewalk. “Oh Merlin, there you are. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

I shrugged. “I’m still not sure this is a great idea.”

“It’ll be fine, you’ll have me beside you the whole time,” she spoke with some amount of affection that I wholly didn’t deserve.

“Let’s get this over with then.”

When I told her that I hadn’t been to Diagon Alley since the war, Weasley had all but forced me to join her on a shopping trip. No amounts of ‘wow this is a really fucking bad idea’ would deter her, for she seemed convinced of the fact that people would learn to accept me. But for some reason, I had finally given in to her request. All because of a simple bond I had created by simply acknowledging her presence.

“It’s surprising how much muggle fashion trends have been taking root in shops here,” Weasley remarked casually as we strolled around.

I looked up from the ground and noted how different the stores seemed from last I was here. It was bright and flashy again, but more importantly, filled with people. People strolling around, people talking, people smiling and giggling.

I felt alone.

“Anything in particular you want to look for, or any shops you want to go to?” Weasley asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t need wizard clothes, but maybe, if muggle was the fashion now. Maybe I could find something I could wear out in my world. Something I could still blend in with, but would give me a cherished memory of a time almost forgotten. A world that was amazing, for as much time as I had been given in it.

Weasley gestured me to a large storefront, a place titled Baruffio’s.

“This is where I get most of my work clothes. It’s decent quality, not too expensive, and their charmwork is lifetime guaranteed.”

We stepped in, a soft bell signaling our presence like a horn of battle. Heads turned, but I didn’t focus on their faces.

“So, why an accountant?” I almost whispered as we perused the racks. “I thought you loved flying. It fit you so well.”

“I did,” she sighed. “Well, I still do, I guess. I just didn’t want to go pro. I just feel like, I dunno. It was what was expected from me. Everyone has all these expectations for me; I have to play quidditch, I have to be sassy, I have to marry Harry Potter, I have to have seven children at least five of which are girls, I have to… I dunno. I guess I just got sick of all the expectations, and decided to do my own thing.”

“That’s admirable.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she snorted.

“So, does that mean you’re not married to Potter?”

“Nah,” she spoke lightly. “We never got back together after the war. We’re still great friends though. I think he got a little sick of the expectations too.”

My stomach flipped at the thought of possibly having to meet Potter again someday, face to face. But maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Weasley could decide I was a wasted effort any moment. I wouldn’t even blame her.

“Well if I start putting any expectations on you, just tell me to stuff it I guess.”

She laughed again, in that adorable snorting sort of way. “Don’t worry, I will.”

An hour or so later, we were on our way out. Weasley had found something she liked and bought it, I hadn’t. I was too busy glancing at some of the other people there. Some stared and glared, but no one said anything. It was more than I deserved really, but it meant that things were going well so far.

We decided to head over to Fortescue's afterward for some ice cream. A celebration possibly, for sticking it out so far. Weasley said it was on her, and I wasn’t complaining.

The line wasn’t long, but we spent the time looking at the different flavors available. I settled on something simple, mint chocolate chip.

The man behind the counter took one look at me as we went to order, and shook his head.

“We don’t serve your kind here,” he spoke gruffly, with finality. And people all around stared.

“Hey she’s with me,” Weasley said, staring the man down like he wasn’t a solid head above her.

“Don’t care. Get out of my shop. Now.”

“What’s your fucking problem? You think I care--?

I tugged at her wrist.

“C’mon,” I whispered. “Let’s just go.”

“No! This is bullshit! Leave that in the past, where it belongs. We’re just trying to move forward now. I lost people too, but I can still interact with her. Even be her friend! People deserve second chances. I mean what exactly do you think is gonna happen if you just start excluding people from society? What do you think is--”

“Ginny,” I whispered more urgently, and she closed her mouth.

All around us, people were staring. Glaring. And not just at me, but at her too. Some with disgust. All of them with disgust.

“Leave,” the shopkeep whispered. “Now.”

The words of my mother lightly caressed my ear.

The art of choosing, of deciding what to pay attention to. The awareness that the most obvious and important realities are the ones you won’t want to consciously think about. Something that might seem clichéd at first, but has a depth to it so invisible that it needs constant reminding.

Is this water?

We turned and left without a word; we didn’t stop walking until we were back at her apartment.

.

.

“I hate this,” I mumbled as we lay down on the bright red couch that clashed brilliantly with Ginny’s hair.

I hated it. All the banalities in the world couldn't ice the pain. The stark reality that the world had rejected you, and always would. I hope you're proud, mom and dad.

Ginny said nothing, and continued stroking my hair. Light caresses, familiar caresses.

I could move to some far away land. A desert wasteland, squabbling about water instead of past mistakes. Or maybe an island somewhere. I had always wanted to travel to Hawaii.

There I could just change my identity. Go by a different name, a different hair color, a different person. No one would know me, or whisper and point at me. No one would spit in my face and call me a murderer.

It sounded nice.

But I didn’t.

I stuck around here for some reason, hiding on the fringes of the wizarding community, taking refuge in the world of muggle apartments and community colleges. I had nothing tying me down, and yet I… lingered. Like a dream, ethereal steps and soft words. A shell of the person I once was, someone I didn’t even recognize anymore. Who was that girl with green eyes and delicate snarls?

Did this world still have anything left for me? Or did I have anything left for this world?

The redhead by my side certainly did, life brimming with excitement, friends, and purpose. A steady beat, and a chorus of noteworthiness.

She still moved her fingers through my hair, more asleep than awake. A gentle rhythm filled with tenderness. A person filled with such care that she would overlook a core filled with brimstone and darkness, and cradle it with reckless abandon. A dare against the Gods that might or might not exist, and a promise that she, herself, would never be corrupted.

I did not deserve this… and yet, here we are.

.

.

“When do the other balls come out?” Ginny asked, full of sincerity. An honest question born of peaceful ignorance.

“It’s football, there are no other balls,” I dutifully replied.

But how do they break up formations? How do they know when the game ends?”

“I don’t know, it’s football. I’m sure they have other strategies. And the game ends when the timer runs out.”

“You mean the game can’t theoretically last forever?” She looked aghast.

“Well, yeah. I mean that’s pretty dumb, right? Nobody should have to play for days on end. And what kind of game design gives you so many points just by ending the game? You might as well have players ignore everything else and just help their seeker catch the snitch.”

“Are you serious right now?”

Ginny looked incredulous, staring at me wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Sorry, not sorry,” I smirked.

We were spending some time at my tiny, little apartment, and while it might not have been as glamorous as hers, I had some things she didn’t. Like a T.V. Something she had never even heard of.

 _‘So muggles DO have moving pictures’_ , she had exclaimed, and I had felt a sense of propriety being able to share this thing with her.

We had just finished eating dinner not too long ago. I showed her how to use a stovetop without magic, how to cook without magic, and how to pair muggle wines with different foods. She had never tried wine before. Never. But then again, neither had I a few years ago.

I had cooked her a delicious meal of thick-cut ribeye, and potatoes, paired with a Zinfandel. I wasn’t sure if she liked red wine much, but she drank a whole glass.

Now we were resting on the couch while we digested our food like two felines, bloody and glorious after a difficult kill.

I looked over at her, and caught her smiling at nothing in particular. She looked up at me, and then glanced away.

“This is… nice,” she timidly spoke, almost a question. “I never thought…”

I waited, but she would never finish the sentence.

On the T.V. screen, the away team scored. The crowds went wild with screams and boos, as all the away players danced and ran around in circles.

 _‘Why do they never seem to score?’_ Ginny had said. _‘It seems boring.’_

Outside, the incessant honks of metropolis life continued unabated, as it did twentyfour-seven. The savory smells of the mexican restaurant across the road mingled with the leftover scent of red steak in the air, tangy and spicy. It was starting to grow colder by now, and I heard the heating rumble on as a draft circulated around the room.

I couldn’t wait until winter. I had always loved the snow. Waking up at three in the morning, out in the countryside, with all the stars and snowflakes twinkling around you. Fading away all the sounds, leaving you in a soft blanket of silence broken only by the soft crunch of footsteps. A cocoon of delicateness that wrapped you up, shielding you away from the world as easily as the gentle ignorance of childhood.

“W… What is this?” Ginny spoke up, and I almost missed it.

“What is what?”

“I dunno, nevermind. Just being weird, sorry.”

I looked at her and smiled.

“I thought you would have learned this from Luna by now. Don’t apologize for being weird. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Ginny nodded, and then gave me a smile in return.

Is this water?

“You’re right.”

I might never be right in this world, but it was a start.

.

.

It was a bitter, Fall morning that found me trudging through Knockturn Alley, haunted by thoughts of mistakes current and past. It really was a creepy place, and I hadn’t the foggiest why the purebloods would favor such a place.

Unfortunately for me, it was possibly the only place in wizarding London which wouldn’t throw me out the front door.

They might want to, of course, for I was a bad image that they would rather not have to explain to the aurors. But coin was coin, and times were hard for the scourges of the dark.

I entered an apothecary, one I knew my late father had favored. Spider webs coated the windows and ceiling corners, and the slight stench of something rotting was spilling out into the biting cold.

Charming.

I nodded towards the shopkeep as I carefully made my way inward and began perusing the shelves.

Potions was an old favorite of mine back in my early education, something I had enjoyed despite its tedium and slowness. Perhaps because of it. And sure, I could find some potions that would help my hayfever, maybe even one that was tailored to my specific allergens, but what was the fun in that?

I placed the odd ingredients in my wicker basket, contemplating this and that, not noticing the shadow that drew across mine.

“Lady Parkinson,” came the feeble, reedy voice of the shopkeeper to my left, and I started. “It is a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I was able to manage.

The man was tall and willowy, built like a knobbly stick. He had piercing brown eyes, and a sallow perplexion that spoke of long nights staring deep into a toxic plume of bubbling ingredients.

“It has been long since I have had the gratification of meeting one of your family,” his lips turned up on either end, but from his drooping skin, it looked more like a grimace than anything else.

“My father used to come here,” I spoke, not wishing to continue the conversation. I had been thoroughly creeped out the moment I had stepped inside.

“Indeed. It is good to see you are following in his footsteps,” he attempted a smile again.

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“Why, you’re following that which we must not speak of, am I correct? The forbidden path. The arts of which one might say are dark?”

A dark pit of fear wormed its way into my stomach, curdling my little-remaining appetite and sending me into a panic. Suddenly everything was an enemy. The candles twinkling on the counter. The half-faded picture on the wall. Dark secrets. Evil doings. A place of wretched things, and terrible memories.

The forlorn voice whispered its enthralling dance. The voice I could never get rid of, that wound itself up inside me like a spool of thread. Its snake-like menace, and honeyed malice. And the thoughts of everything I had to do during the war. The things the Carrow siblings tasked us with.

I could still hear her screams.

Fight or flight.

“Miss Parkinson?”

I chose flight.

Ginny found me an hour later, moping around on her doorstep.

Calm assurances about how everything would be alright. That the world hadn’t been flipped upside down but a few scant years ago. But I knew the truth.

I could still feel the flesh grinding beneath my hand, and the pained screams mixed with bile and sweat. Of bloodshot eyes and long-forgotten dreams.

Is this water?

.

.

Ginny stood by my side, hand in mine as I stared at the empty fireplace. A portal to a world that was so far excused from my life that it might not even exist. What strange, wondrous things might be happening on the other side?

“I won’t force you to go,” Ginny whispered, but I knew I had no choice. It was this or keep living in misery, always wondering what could have been if I had given it the chance.

But the main, important thing is that it would make her happy, and because of that my mind was set.

I grabbed a pinch of the green powder, and flung it into the cold hearth. It immediately sprang with wild flames licking the brick overlay, a mane of fierce colors that reminded me of another in my life.

I stepped in the flames, and spoke the words that would seal my fate forever.

“The Burrow.”

My world spun around me, but before I knew it, I was stepping out into a homely living area filled with messy boxes and knick knacks of indeterminate usefulness.

A moment later and Ginny reappeared by my side with a pop.

Someone walked into the room, a man of medium height with short hair as wild as the woman beside me. He was dressed in sharp, professional clothing.

“I thought I heard someone else arrive,” he casually said without a hint of something else.

“You must be Percy,” I said while holding out my hand. He shook it. I could practically hear the woman beside me light up at getting his identity right.

“That I am. And you must be the Pansy I’ve been hearing about so much lately.”

“Good things, I hope,” I whispered vulnerably.

“Good things,” he said with a calm reassurance.

Gone was a scraggly boy I remembered from school, who leapt and jumped at his duties like a fish out of water. Naive optimism and haughty elitism. In his place was a man who had come into his own, born of experience and molded by hard work. We had all changed from those timid years, for better or worse.

“I shouldn’t keep you to myself. Come meet the others, I know they’re excited to meet you. Do forgive George though, he wasn’t feeling well tonight. Him and Fred loved Bonfire Night, and I think the memory doesn’t sit well ever since.”

Too understandable.

I followed Percy into the next room, trailed by Ginny who had grabbed my hand once again. New experiences.

The kitchen wasn’t much cleaner. If anything it was worse, but I could tell that this room served purpose. Pots boiled and skillets crackled, and a heavenly smell rose above the scent of dry wood and old paper. And nestled in among the chairs and table were stunning redheads of varying heights.

The ernest discussion slowed as I entered the room, Ginny by my side. And a short, somewhat plump woman smiled in a matronly sort of way.

“Pansy…” she abandoned her cookware and stepped forward. “I’m so happy you could make it.”

She took me in her arms, filled with warmth and care and love and motherly instinct, and all at once, I felt at peace. Like I was home. That all was right in the world, and as such, all was right in me.

Talk resumed on all sides as I was then introduced to redhead after redhead, and the occasional significant other as well. They all danced around me like snowflakes, or perhaps fireworks would be a better term. They sizzled with energy and radiated warmth and light like no other. Together, they weaved a basket of sparks and flames that rivaled the most resplendent of galaxies. And I was almost lost among the thick of it.

But Ginny was there to guide me. She took my hand and led me to the cold outdoors, where a flurry of pale snowflakes flickered in the lantern light. She gestured at the boxes to the side, filled to the brim with fireworks.

“We don’t live too far from some muggle families, you know… Every year, we would watch without fail as the skies would fill with sparks and flame, always on the same day, and each year we wondered why.”

She giggled softly at something.

“We never did find out, of course. But we felt like it was important for some reason or other, so we started contributing each year to the sky of fire and light.”

And I understood.

Why I moved to the muggle world, after being soundly rejected from my own. Because I could have hid, could have ignored the facts, could have moved to Hawaii and stuck my fingers in my ears and pretended like nothing had ever happened. But that wasn’t right. I wanted to learn more, about this world that had hid from me. All these people my parents hadn’t taught me about; their lives, their accomplishments, their hopes and dreams. How to look past my prejudice and see something beautiful.

There were others who were further along in this path than me. Fiery beings of love and purity, who saw a simple beauty and wanted to contribute whatever they could. Who might not understand; who might look at me and be confused, or hurt, or off put. But they were still willing to share their life with me, because of their love. Because they cared about Ginny, and so they cared about me too.

I kissed her under the twinkling lights then, a moment I would never forget.

Because my case wasn’t hopeless, that I could still redeem myself. And I wouldn’t stop until I had nothing left to accomplish.

Because this… this is water.

And I was finally home.


End file.
